Jetlag & Ugly Dresses
by CafeAuLait
Summary: Lizzie is a free-spirited jet-setting screenwriter wunderkind. Darcy is a neurotic CEO of an international multi-billion real estate business. Will she be his Manic Pixie Girl or Annie Hall; let alone stay in the same time zone long enough to fall in love?
1. Chapter One

**AN: **Sooo hi everybody. Has it been five years since I last updated? Oh really? Wow, how time flies! *Ducks behind a sturdy makeshift barrier* Well, there are many excuses and reasons I could give you, Internet, why I was not able to finish my previous endeavor at P&P fanfiction, but they are mostly boring and typical. All I can say is, this time, I will actually update biweekly. For those of you who still even remember the original story from five years ago, welcome to a somewhat altered story with different narrative styles and much less complicated plot lines (why did I think a fake pregnancy was a good idea? Ah well, I was young..._er_). To new readers, enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter One**

_New York, New York_

"LYDIA," called out an authoritarian, if not slightly panicked, disembodied male voice from down the hallway on the twenty-first floor of a Frank Gehry designed Manhattan building.

"Yeah boss?" replied his personal assistant, not bothering to look up from her iPad where she was revising her employer's schedule.

"Did you pack the travel-sized humidifier?"

"Yes, it's in your carry-on so you can use it once you board the plane."

"What about the antihistamines from Dr. Watkins' office?"

"I put them in the outside flap of your briefcase. And what the hell boss, I thought you fired him for good this time? Why are you doing still filling out his prescriptions?"

"Because Lydia, you know how I like to travel with a fully stocked first aid kit and I needed to replenish my supplies on short notice."

"But why get a prescription from that charlatan, why not run down to the drug store – _ha_, now there's a funny thought, you running your own errands…"

"Lydia, Watkins is a highly educated man who serves half of the Upper East Side –"

"The severely over medicated half…"

" – and is very respected in his field –"

"The field of fabricating little known symptoms and diseases to con his way into your checkbook…"

"_Lydia_, you are fully aware of my condition –"

"Light hypochondria..."

"My _cough_ which develops every time I fly and the hives I break out into unless the cabin pressure is offset by my specially regulated air filter!"

"Whatever you say, boss. By the way, I made you a kale and flaxseed hummus smoothie with quinoa. It's in the fridge in the staff kitchen next to the Kripsy Kreme boxes from Maria's birthday party."

A growl rumbled from the slightly ajar door of her employer's office.

"Woman! I swear you did that on purpose! You know that I just started a diet. Why do I put up with you?"

"Because you said that I have otherworldly organizational skills and am excellent at communicating with your employees, legal team, and stock analysts whereas you, to quote, 'hate having to deal with the plebian masses.'"

"You can include my family into that mix," the voice griped bitterly.

Silence followed and only the sounds of soft keyboard clacking could be heard. Lydia Montgomery may have been the sassiest PA this side of the Hudson, but she knew better than to discuss The Big Honcho's reputedly wretched family members. She wanted to keep her job, after all, and everyone at Darcy Group International knew that the surefire way to provoke the infamous temper of Mr. Darcy was to mention his family in his presence.

Lydia paused before sending Darcy's new trip itinerary to the printers. She shook her head. _Yeah, mos def never going to cross that line and initiate a convo about his super wacked out family. That would be inapropo mad awks…_

The PA's internal musings were disrupted by William Darcy himself, who appeared in front of her desk with an agitated look upon his beautifully sculpted face. Dark, perfectly groomed eyebrows contorted into a grimace above striking blue eyes, a strong, angular jaw showed the signs of gritted teeth. _Man, if only he wasn't, like, 36 and _super_ ancient…and anal retentive and goes to bed at 9 every night and, like, never_ _drinks beer, what the hell? Ewww his breath probably reeks of olive oil or like, fennel seed._

"What happened to my green tie? The Ferragamo one."

Lydia looked confused.

"Er, boss, aren't you wearing it right now?"

"This one? No, Lydia, this is the forest green Lanvin silk. I meant the Ferragamo wool blend."

"Isn't wool going to look a little heavy for the summer?"

"No…You think so?"

"So it would look weird, that's all. What about the emerald green tie you like so much?"

Darcy's expression quickly transformed from one of irritation to bashfulness.

"Yes, about that…" he rubbed one hand behind his neck. "I need you to replace it for me. Like, immediately."

Lydia had already picked up a legal pad and pen, ready to jot down her boss's directions. But first,

"Wait…You lost…The Special Tie?"

One look at Darcy's face confirmed his misdoings.

"Boss! That was a limited edition Hermes silk blend hand-crafted by old French biddies in the countryside! Only, like, 50 were made and only _three _in that specific color of emerald green exist. Do you know how many people I had to hussle to get my hands on just one of them? And now you say you _lost _it?"

"Well, I didn't exactly _lose _it, per se…A, er, well a woman sort of…uh, cutitupintolittlepieces after I told her it wasn't 'working out' between us."

Lydia blew out a breath and slumped over her desk, already looking for that Hermes atelier contact number in her Macbook…

"Omigod, seriously,boss. When are you ever going to learn to stop dating floozies?"

"Caroline was a nice girl!...Until the very end."

"When she went psycho happy with scissors on your personal belongings? Please tell me nothing happened to Fyodor at least."

Fyodor Catstoyevsky was Darcy's incredibly lazy Siberian who ruled supreme over his large home in Sutton Place.

"He's fine, thank God. Reynolds is looking after him while I'm gone. I think he might be a little traumatized after being introduced to Caroline…she wears almost too much fur…"

"Alright, I'll see what I can do about the Hermes, but I can't make any promises. You might have to settle with the new shipment of Burberrys that came into Saks today, heaven forbid that you deign to wear _cotton_ –"

"Well...I don't necessarily have a problem with it if it's hypoallergenic," Darcy quipped.

"Now here is your finalized schedule," Lydia handed over the meticulously detailed document freshly printed in Helvetica font size 11 with 1¾ inch margins, as per Darcy's request.

"Thank you, Lydia," Darcy said gratefully as he tucked the file into his vintage leather Asprey portfolio, a beloved item that was bequest from his father's will. "I'll see you at JFK, six a.m. sharp."

With that, Darcy left the office at two minutes until 7 o' clock, got into the elevator and arrived in the lobby at 7 on the dot, nodded to Fred the security guard before getting into the Mercedes to be drive by Emmanuel to the gym where Darcy worked on strength conditioning and cardio for two hours, then returned home to eat a meal of USDA certified organic tofu, chickpeas, and cauliflower that Reynolds prepared while answering the 63 emails he received since leaving work, distractedly tried to watch one episode of Game of Thrones in bed while working on his Macbook propped on his lap, and promptly passed out by 11pm with his BlackBerry lying next to his head on the goose feather down and cashmere-fitted pillow.

* * *

_Paris, France_

"Elizabeth, did you hear anything I just said?"

"Hmmm?"

"Elizabeth – "

Lizzie Bennett kept her head down, thumbs typing a text message at a furious pace.

"_Elizabeth_…" Charlotte Lucas said through gritted teeth, eyes narrowed – not that her flighty client took any notice.

Charlotte's breakfast companion sighed, as if all the world's burdens rested unjustly on her youthful and delicate shoulders, and took a sip of her espresso.

"Yes, Charlotte, I believe I heard you perfectly," Lizzie said through a mouthful of an almond croissant.

The public relations junior executive cringed at the crumbs on Lizzie's left cheek. Raised by nannies and brought up in English boarding schools, the daughter of the Drs. Lucas, the legendary wife and husband plastic surgery team from Beverly Hills, could not find amusement in her client's table manners, no matter how famous or sought-after she was in Hollywood.

Charlotte straightened her back and picked invisible lint from her custom tailored Armani jacket. It was now Charlotte's turn to heave a sigh as she regarded Lizzie from across the small table laden with coffee and half-eaten pastries. As one of the most promising PR consultants at her firm, Charlotte had her fair share of difficult meetings with fame-hungry reality TV stars, fading rock stars who hadn't produced any new material in years, and athletes in sore need of career revivals. Lizzie Bennett was a budding superstar and Charlotte's first assignment of any promise and substance. Charlotte could see herself building her career and reputation alongside the young yet already respected screenwriter. Lizzie Bennett could really _be_ something if she wanted to, but much to Charlotte's frustration, she didn't.

Sitting cross-legged and eating a second pain au chocolat, Lizzie certainly looked extremely out of place among the L'Espadon patrons at the Hôtel Ritz. Bright hazel eyes on a pale, high cheek-boned face were hidden behind large sunglasses that looked like Prada knock-offs purchased at a sidewalk vendor. A tall and toned body was concealed underneath an oversized flannel and Wellesley College sweatpants. Personally knitted Harry Potter quidditch themed socks adorned her feet and were openly displayed for the whole world to see through worn-in Birkenstock sandals.

The waiters had to bite their cheeks every time they passed the table and made Charlotte wish that she could find a nice, comfortable Charlotte-sized hole to crawl into and disappear.

Oblivious to the attention, Lizzie dug into another pastry as she proved to her PR manager that she had, in fact, listened to the endless speeches about her upcoming responsibilities.

"Yes, Charlotte, I understand that while in Paris for this press tour, I am to frequent at least three restaurants and two lounge bars. Monday morning, I have a phone interview with the arts and culture editor from The Times…" Lizzie ticked off each item from her schedule on one hand – the one that wasn't holding a beignet.

"Let's see…there's dinner with my literary agent somewhere in the sixth arrondisement tonight, a fitting at Christian Dorry –"

"_Dior_."

"Um…okay. So tomorrow, there's lunch with some French actor who is rumored to be cast in my next project – Xavier? Gerard? – Whatever, he's not going to get it anyway, it's just another one of your publicist plot thingies…"

Charlotte rolled her eyes heavenward and cursed the day she was assigned to manage the image of the utterly unmanageable Elizabeth Bennett. Any of her previous clients would have killed for all the media attention Lizzie was receiving. But the Cannes Festival winning, Academy Award nominated, film critics' dearly adored screenwriter of two extremely successful films was blissfully indifferent to being world famous at the age of 24.

The perfectly put together PR agent waved to a passing waiter, indicating to Lizzie that their breakfast meeting was over. Elated, for she had plans to visit Musée d'Orsay today, Lizzie stood up hastily and ungraciously slung her huge canvas tote on her shoulders.

Taking one last sip from her espresso, Lizzie turned around to leave and abruptly collided with a tall body possessing of a hard muscled chest.

"Oof!" cried out Lizzie.

"Monsieur, are you alright?"

William Darcy did not deign to involve himself in such trivialities and especially not in public at L'Espadon. The girl – or should he say street urchin who was somehow admitted, perhaps out of a misplaced sense of charity, into the restaurant – was nothing more than a tiny slip who at least had not caused any damage to his new Hermes tie –

"Omigod, boss, your portfolio is absolutely _drenched_ in coffee –"

"WHAT."

_Damn it. Cue Darcy Panic Attack, Final Level: OhFuckFuckFuck The Ship Is Going Down. This is _not _a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill_, Lydia silently thought as she quickly flipped through her attaché case in blind terror.

"Boss, it's okay, I have the back-up copies right here!" Lydia said breathlessly after finding them in record time. But it was too late, Darcy didn't hear a word of Lydia's reassurances. The Darcy temper had already been relentlessly unleashed on the poor unsuspecting soul that stood under his infuriated stare.

"Do you have _any _idea what you've just done? Are you so _blind_ behind those cheap sunglasses and unkempt hair that you didn't realize that you were in the way of another person? Or did you actually manage to see me and were too _dumb_ and _slow_ to move out of the way? Now the entirety of MY FIVE MONTHS OF HARD WORK AND NEGOTIATIONS has just been saturated with the noxious, cancerous sludge you call coffee! You've not only RUINED all of my work, but also my 5,000 dollar one-of-a-kind portfolio which I'm sure you'll never be able to replace. You'd probably have to work a lifetime sweeping sidewalks to pay back because, OH YES, YOU WILL pay it back."

Stunned silence and wide-eyed scandalized stares were directed at the incensed, yet still handsomely dark figure after his outburst. Many of the upscale patrons had previous or current dealings with the mercurial William Darcy and were not completely affronted by his behavior, and especially not on behalf of some ridiculously dressed girl.

Several moments passed as the poor flummoxed waiter stood by helplessly and the breakfast goers wondered whether the girl would run out of the restaurant crying in hysterics.

But Lizzie Bennett stood her ground and deliberately pulled off her sunglasses to give the asshole in front of her the patented Bennett Bitch Stare (copyright Francine Johanna Bennett).

Darcy instantly forced himself to suppress a surprised gasp as he gazed into dark, intelligent eyes that were currently holding in tears. He felt a tiny twinge of guilt.

The young woman dug into her messy, disorganized tote and pulled out several items – chapstick, a jar of peanut butter, about nine thousand pens – before finding her checkbook. Hastily writing out a check, the girl ripped out the small piece of paper and slipped it into the breast pocket of his Tom Ford suit jacket.

Lizzie, who did actually hear the frightened assistant's remarks about the copies, looked over to Lydia and smiled genuinely, "Have a good day, miss." Hardening the angles of her face, which only made Darcy generate unwelcome thoughts about her beauty, Lizzie returned her Bennett Bitch Stare to the accosted CEO. "And good luck with this guy."

Stepping pass the stunned party, Lizzie hurriedly left the Ritz.

Darcy finally regained his wits and fished the slip of paper out from his pocket. Curiously glancing at it, he saw that an Elizabeth M. Bennett from Silver Lake, California signed a $5,000 check made out to "Dickhead" for "heartless douchebag activities." Darcy huffed and promptly handed it over to Lydia, telling her to dispose of it before stomping towards his meeting.

"Omigod, that was FIERCE!" Lydia whispered reverentially as she followed her employer after tucking the impertinently written check in her purse, possibly to be framed for purposes of future preservation of a moment in history - The Time Darcy Got Pwn'ed.

Before the terrified waiter could scurry along after them, he was interrupted by a small, defeated female voice from seemingly out of nowhere.

"I'd like a whiskey neat. Immediately, please," Charlotte Lucas said.

* * *

Happy fourth of July, y'all!


	2. Chapter Two

**AN: **Thank you for all the support from veteran and new readers! A reviewer was distressed that this version of Lizzie dresses like a hobo and I am so happy that the description conjured up that image for you! This fanfic was always about Lizzie's travels, her clothes, and her coming into her own as a woman in general, so no worries, our girl will clean up nice soon. I'm so glad that people are liking the story so far and will try to update by the end of this week.

* * *

_London, England, United Kingdom_

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm very excited about our next guest tonight. She won the Golden Globe Best Screenplay award last year, has been nominated for countless awards including an Oscar, and is the screenwriter behind this summer's breakout hit movie _Bent Tulips_. Please give a warm welcome, for the first time on this program, to the wonderfully talented Lizzie Bennett!"

The house band struck up the arrangement to "Brown Eyed Girl" as Lizzie emerged from backstage to wave at the audience and greet her host.

"Hi there!" Lizzie smiled at Billy Collins of The Late Night Show as she shook his hand and pulled in for a casual hug.

After the initial niceties – "Thanks for having me on the show," Lizzie was told by Charlotte to say and "You look gorgeous!" Billy shouted mainly for the benefit of the male presence in his audience – Lizzie sat down on the plush armchair, ready to chat with the gregarious host.

It was Lizzie's first televised interview in front of a live audience, a venue that necessitated a _performance _more than a low-key conversation with film critics and journalists. If Lizzie was nervous, she didn't show it.

"So, Lizzie, it's been an exciting and busy few years for you. Almost out of nowhere, you've now become a huge sensation in the film festival circuit."

"Uh, it's been pretty crazy." Nervous chuckle. "But I also love writing and working on movies. It's allowed me to see the world and work with the most talented people in the business. I never thought I'd get to do something I love _and _get paid for it, you know, so it's kind of like a dream come true in a ways."

"And all your success happened very suddenly, didn't it? You were just a college kid and suddenly you're at the Oscars, having lunches with Scorsese, all that big shot Hollywood stuff."

"Haha, well I've never had lunch or any meal with Scorsese, although that would be pretty awesome. But I guess all the other stuff is true. Um, I actually sold my first script during my last semester in college when my housemate Jane – hi Jane! – encouraged me to just give it a shot. I had no expectations whatsoever, no idea that it would be picked up by a studio, let alone get realized into a movie that people would actually enjoy."

"And this first script, you're talking about _Midnight Graffiti_?"

Lizzie nods.

"You wrote that while you were still in _college_?"

Lizzie nods again.

"Wow. I tell ya, my wife and I went to see the movie expecting a light-hearted heist comedy about some young wannabe gangsters. The jokes in the trailer were absolutely _hilarious_. At the end of the movie, and no spoilers here, we were bawling like babies. Tears were literally raining on our faces." Billy Collins wildly gestured with his hands to the studio audience's laughter. "The story turns very dark and serious, and I have to ask where you found the source material for something like that? I mean, no offense to you, but you must have been very young when you wrote it. So it doesn't seem likely that you have the life experience for such a subject matter."

More nervous laughter erupted from Lizzie, who then relieved a sigh, knowing that this question was her cue to finally put to rest some of the criticisms that surrounded her.

"Yeah, a lot of people have asked about that and it's a fair question. To be honest, I never considered being a screenwriter. I took a lot of Pre-Law courses thinking that I'd go to law school. During my summers at home, I volunteered at Legal Aid in Cook County, which is the South Side of Chicago and an area known for problems with poverty, crime, drugs, and prostitution. It was an eye-opening experience and the work we accomplished was incredibly fulfilling because we knew that we were making a difference in small, but significant ways. But to be honest, it could get frustrating with all the bureaucracy and hurdles involved. And some of the stories of the people I worked with were so devastatingly sad that I had to find an outlet for it somehow. So that's when I turned to writing, first because I needed to digest what I had seen and learned and second because I wanted to tell their story; not a lot of people do."

Lizzie clears her throat after her lengthy explanation, hoping that the coached and rehearsed speech cleared the air for future studio executives who were apprehensive about financially backing a green twenty-three year old screenwriter.

"Wow…wow, that's truly remarkable."

There are polite and respectful cheers from the audience. Backstage where Lizzie's Yves Saint Laurent suited PR agent was watching on a television screen, Charlotte Lucas smiled for the first time at something her client did right.

"You mentioned Chicago, did you grow up there?"

"Yeah, I'm from a suburb outside of Chicago called Evanston –"

A few whoops broke out in the crowd.

"Hiya!" Lizzie waves charmingly to a distant part of the audience.

"And what do your parents do?"

"My dad is a professor. He teaches molecular biology at the University of Chicago…yeah, it's really exciting stuff."

"Hah, I could imagine!"

"And my mom is a British expat actually; she's from the Hertfordshire County in England. My parents met when my dad was studying in England –" a few "aaawww's" break out in the crowd. "My mom's a really trendy person; she owns and runs a small boutique that sells…I don't actually know…whatever it is that wealthy suburban ladies like to buy...like miniature Corgi crystal key chains or whatever."

Lizzie earns a few chuckles.

"And are your parents supportive and happy for you? With the new direction your life's taken?"

"Definitely, they've always been extremely supportive in whatever I wanted to pursue. They're mostly amused that I'm this sort-of recognized person in Hollywood now and they're still getting used to the fact that I travel everywhere these days. My mom loves to send me links and pictures of dresses that she finds online and tells me exactly what to wear for events and premieres."

"Oh really? And how often do you listen to her advice?"

"Heh…um, almost never?" Lizzie grins and shrugs, openly abashed.

The audience chortles good-naturedly at the young woman.

"So I take it that the dress you're wearing isn't a suggestion from your mom?"

"Um…no. Actually, my PR agent picked this out." Lizzie wrinkles her nose almost imperceptibly as she gestures towards the frock. "I'm not sure my super posh British mother would have let me out of the house in this…"

Somewhere backstage, a very proper and ladylike snort could be heard in the darkness.

Billy snickers behind his fist as the audience laughs knowingly, for a strapless Hervé Léger black and white bandage dress was painted onto Lizzie Bennett's slim figure, showing off a tasteful amount of cleavage. Her silky, wavy hair was swept over one shoulder, baring an alluringly long neck and healthy glowing skin. Shapely, toned legs were displayed to their best advantage thanks to the four-inch Jimmy Choo silver metallic sandals on her feet. Lizzie initially hated what her ever-vexing PR manager picked out for her to wear – and on _national television_ no less – but never let it be said that Charlotte Lucas wasn't damn good at her job.

_Well first impressions be damned_, Darcy thought as he watched the YouTube clip of Lizzie Bennett's interview on The Late Night Show with Billy Collins on his iPhone. _That so-called street rat is beautiful. Awkward in that obviously borrowed dress, but just...beautiful._

Darcy was sitting in the lobby of The Savoy browsing the internet on his iPhone while waiting for his car and driver to appear to take him to Heathrow. Lydia had been dispatched on the task of acquiring a specific brand of organic, fair trade green tea imported from China. It was four in the morning and Darcy was reclining on a plush leather armchair, bored, restless, and suddenly curious about the striking pair of intelligent brown eyes that had never completely left his thoughts since he left Paris three weeks ago.

Of course, he Google'd "Elizabeth Bennett" and found the Late Night Show interview that she gave just the previous day in New York. _Maybe she's even still in town,_ emerged a stray rebellious thought that Darcy had tried to keep hidden. _Oh shut up, you twat..._Twat?_...I've been in England for too long._

It had been a grueling month filled with meetings and contract negotiations as Darcy and his team met with architectural and design firms in Western Europe to finalize details of several large-scale private and public projects that were getting reading to launch simultaneously. The European business trip was a result of the past year in which Darcy International experienced a surge of activity due to the new CEO's vision for the company. William Darcy was voted into the head position by the executive board after George Darcy died of failures from a heart attack. The thirty-six year old William was considered too young in the world of the old boys' club of old golfing buddies. Nevertheless, he was the natural predecessor of the Darcy business empire. Thus all holdings and assets, including Pemberley House and the guardianship of 12-year-old half sister Georgiana, transferred directly to George Darcy's only son and heir. It had not been an easy year for William Darcy.

The video streaming on Darcy's iPhone was suddenly disrupted by an incoming call. "Margaret Reynolds," the family's most trusted and highest-ranking employee, was calling from his New York house.

Eyebrows furrowed, Darcy answered immediately, wondering about the reason for her call at 11 at night New York time.

"Yes, Reynolds?"

A no-nonsense and practical woman, Reynolds cut right to the chase. "It's Georgiana." Pleasant thoughts of Lizzie Bennett's attractive figure flew out of Darcy's head as he sat up straight and on alert.

"What's wrong?"

"She was caught shop-lifting cigarettes at a convenience store. The police have decided not to press charges, due to her age and the fact that it was a minor and first time offense."

A deep frown formed on Darcy's fresh-shaved and firm jaw.

"So she doesn't have a record? It won't affect her Trinity application?"

The Trinity School, located in Manhattan, was _the _college preparatory in New York City. Georgiana was expected to attend and uphold the Darcy name. After all, big brother Darcy had set several school records in swimming. Father George Darcy was editor of the school newspaper. Mother Anne Fitzwilliam Darcy was president of the Classics Club. Grandfather James Darcy founded the French Club. Great-grandfather Charles Darcy was the school's first Rhodes Scholar. The first William Darcy – the one who created the family business – was Class President all four years. In upper-crust Manhattan society, a Darcy not attending Trinity was unheard of. In the Darcy family itself, a Darcy not attending Trinity was sacrilegious.

"No, nothing was filed. But Will, the police brought her home in a squad car. She was escorted to the front door. The neighbors…everyone saw."

An abrupt beeping noise alerted Darcy to a new caller, "Evil Incarnate." Darcy hit reject.

"Catherine just rang, no doubt desirous of reopening the custody battle in light of recent events. The neighborhood gossips are sure working overtime at the moment if Catherine has already found out."

The usually level-headed Reynolds grumbled ill-naturedly at the mention of that woman's name.

"Will, that doesn't matter. The case is closed and she has no standing anyway. Now, what should I do about Georgie?"

"Where is she?"

"Shut up in her room. She's been playing _La Traviata _all night and refusing to talk to anyone. Wouldn't even eat the grilled salmon Frank made, her favorite."

Darcy rolled his eyes. Adolescent aspirant bandit she may be, but Georgiana was a moody, bratty music nerd at heart.

"Probably useless for me to talk to her right now, huh?"

"That would be unwise…" Although Reynolds never had any children of her own, she knew enough about teenage girls to know that the last thing Georgiana needed was a lecture from her stern old-enough-to-be-her-father brother.

"My flight is departing in two hours and I'll be back in New York soon. Brief me on the details when I arrive in the house, but for now, just tell the neighbors or God forbid the press that this is a personal family matter and that we ask for privacy. Not that it needs repeating, but _do not _under any circumstances let Catherine contact Georgiana. The woman hardly cared about raising her child for the first ten years of her life; she should have no reason to now."

"Don't worry, nothing will get through."

A throbbing pain at Darcy's right temple intensified at the mere thought of Catherine trying to use the latest incident to get her long, sharp, tastelessly manicured red nails on Georgiana – or rather the Darcy money.

"Thank you Reynolds, I implicitly trust in your judgment until I am back in the States to handle things."

"It'll be good to have you home, Will. Safe travels, say hello to Lydia for me."

"I will. Thank you. I'll see you soon."

_Click_.

_Well, shit_, Darcy thought. _One month abroad and my baby sister turns into a criminal. Some big brother you are. _

After a four week streak of victorious meetings that concluded in more building projects and money for everyone, Darcy finally faced a day in which he would experience some setbacks. Every day couldn't be a good one, after all.

"Boss!" cried Lydia, panting as if she had been on a frantic search for an exclusive, rare, and delicate blend of Chinese green tea for the past hour – which she had.

_Finally, my tea. A cup of antioxidants will definitely clear my head and help me think._

"Lydia, did you get –"

"Er, no, sorry," Lydia informed Darcy with remorse. Her boss lived religiously on whatever foods and ingredients his personal nutritionist recommended. And if Dr. Patel suggested an impossible-to-find and incredibly obscure oolong brew, then damn it, Darcy would have it. Lydia only regretted not packing more for the trip.

"Um, but I got you an orange juice instead?" Lydia nervously tried to placate her employer by shaking the glass bottle enticingly. "I even bought it from a 24-hour new age-y health foods store! It's a hundred percent juice and has no preservatives or corn syrup…?"

Darcy sighed dramatically and shook his head, turning down the orange sludge.

_Yes, it's going to be a bad day._

"Alright, well...D'you mind if I have a swig at it, yeah?" Lydia asked, unknowingly in a surprisingly accurate East End accent that she must have absorbed through osmosis.

_Has Lydia been hanging out with random chavs in her down time here? Never mind, I don't actually want to know. This is a sign though; it's time to go home.__  
_


	3. Chapter Three

AN: Happy Olympics, everyone!

* * *

**Hunky Billionaire Will Darcy Volunteers at Community Garden with Sister**

Billionaire Will Darcy, CEO of Darcy Group International – you know, the family that built half of New York City and all of the Olympic and FIFA World Cup stadiums for the past fifty years? – was spotted yesterday getting his hands dirty at one of his company's construction sites in East Harlem. Pictured above in well worn jeans (why Mr. Darcy, we had no idea you even knew denim existed!), Darcy is seen with his cute-as-a-button little sister Georgiana working on a community garden with neighborhood children and their parents. The Darcy Foundation, a nonprofit charity based in New York and associated with DGI, sponsors these volunteer events which take place every weekend. Also in attendance were many top executives of DGI and their families. Whereas the Foundation attributes the large presence of DGI employees to the example led by its chairman, Will Darcy himself, we suspect that their notoriously demanding and severe boss had more than a little to do with it! Apparently, even little sister Georgiana can't escape this particular duty. Perhaps the reportedly fastidious CEO is already grooming little sis for the family business?

**NYGirl8417**

Good to see that a global company headquartered in New York makes some local impact!

**FutureMrsDarcy**

daaayum. check out my boy in those tight fitting jeans. HOT. will is more than welcome to tend to _my _garden any time he wants ;)

**PwnageBoyX_X**

privileged, rich white man picks up bags of dirt. how is this news?

**Guest**

Who cares about his shoveling skills, what I need to know is whether he's still dating that "model" Caroline Bingley?

**PwnageBoyX_X**

[Who cares about his shoveling skills, what I need to know is whether he's still dating that "model" Caroline Bingley?]  
seriously? you people need to reevaluate your lives.

**Guest**

Says the one who comments on the emptiness of our comments.

**THEMrsDarcy**

Have you been living under a rock?! Darcy broke up with the "aspiring actress" (and even calling her that is a stretch) weeks ago!

**FutureMrsDarcy**

excuse me THEMrsDarcy, but there's only going to be ONE mrs. darcy in the future and that's ME. i was soooo glad when will and caroline broke up. i mean, she's not even interesting and will needs someone who can hold up her own in a relationship. ME.

* * *

_New York City, New York_

Lizzie should have known that if you were a young and leggy brunette running errands near your temporary Brooklyn walk-up in a Spanish style lace wedding dress with the hem cut off right above the knees (Florence flea market), gladiator sandals (super trendy and scary pretentious boutique in Seoul), and a well-worn leather motorcycle jacket (Francine Bennett), then you were most likely going to be photographed by one of the various fashion bloggers in the city. It was a good thing that Lizzie Bennett still retained anonymity in New York.

Although if any the plaid flannel, skinny cuffed jeans, and Chukkas wearing twentysomethings in the coffee shops that Lizzie frequented knew who she was and what she wrote, she would have had a much more difficult time getting her blueberry muffins in the morning. If there was anything Lizzie Bennett valued more than anything else, it was breakfast food. And also privacy. But waffles as well.

So there Lizzie stood in the middle of the sidewalk trying to pose nonchalantly while Craig or Patchouli or Thaddius, she didn't really catch his name, captured some shots of her in her admittedly weird get-up. Lizzie knew that she dressed "eccentrically" as her British mother and uptight PR agent bemoaned. Lizzie also knew that her "stubborn hobo phase" (her mother's words) of leaving the house in Birkenstocks and lounge wear was due in part to her refusal to let go of her college days in which it was perfectly acceptable to live in yoga pants.

She missed Wellesley. She missed going to lectures. She even missed the shoddy cafeteria food. But most of all, she missed Jane Martinez, her best friend and roommate throughout all of undergrad. She didn't know how to make friends outside of college; in fact, she was pretty miserable at it. The rising star was awkward at industry mixers. She couldn't tell the sincerely interested and talented people apart from the fame-hungry attention seekers. She never really learned how to pose for photographs despite her "enviable, God given bone structure" (Charlotte's words).

After a whirlwind year of traveling, writing, and attending premieres and parties, Lizzie needed to recoup. She needed Jane. So it was a good thing that she was in New York City where her best friend lived and worked.

Lizzie settled down at a table in her neighborhood café with an espresso and this month's _New Yorker_ when her iPhone _ding_'ed with an incoming text message. She smiled at the new message from Jane.

**Benny! Are you back in the states yet?**

I just flew in two days ago. When are you free? I have meetings all afternoon, but this evening is good.

**Yes! TONIGHT. Dinner at 7. I'll text you directions.**

Yay, I'm so exciiited! I've missed you!

**I've missed you too! Do you mind if I bring my friend Charles?**

"Friend"

**Sorta ^_^**

Who is he this time? Algerian tennis player? Japanese banker? Austrian F1 racer?

**Now Benny, just because I've dated all those gentlemen in the past doesn't mean that I'll date them again.**

Allow me to vicariously live your love life, woman!

**Not my fault you travel so much. Just remember the words of Beyonce: You a bad girl and your friends bad too ;)**

I thought we agreed to live by the creed of "Independent Woman."

**ALL of Beyonce and Destiny's Child songs are encoded into our beliefs.**

"I may be young but I'm readaaay" ... is what I need to tell my producers today.

**Oooh, is this about your next project? Tell me more at dinner! And you better be ready because my guy is bringing his friend too. Sooo…**

I will! And I need to hear all about your job too, obviously. Are you setting me up again? Good luck! You're 0 for 5, sooo…

**Don't flatter me Bennett, like anyone wants to know about the hard and fast times of a hedge fund analyst. And it's not my fault you're so damn picky about guys.**

Not my fault you fall in love with everyone, CasaJanea :P

**GAH I HATE YOU FOR GIVING ME THAT NICKNAME. Just because I like to see the good in people doesn't mean I fall in love with every guy I date!**

Homecoming. Sophomore year.

**… I have no comment.**

(=^.^=) Tee hee hee

**Why do you always turn into a Japanese school girl in texting conversations?!**

Why are you avoiding the topic?

**Lizzie, I think Charles might be the one. Seriously. I really want you guys to meet.** **We've been seeing each other for a month now and it's been great. FANTASTIC actually. He might be the real thing, idk… As for you and his friend…well, it's only one dinner and you'll probably never see him again. Who knows. You two could end up married with a million kids.**

You've been dating one single guy for a whole month? I need to tell Mary and Katie, that's a RECORD. Now I have to meet him even if that means putting up with his friend. I refuse to acknowledge what you said about marriage and kids. EW.

**You never know ;)**

Lalalalalala

**Haha. See you tonight!**

Can't wait!

**And Lizzie. I'm really nervous about you and Charles meeting. I'm meeting his friend for the first time too and apparently he's this real big wig in the business world. Be nice please?**

Always.

**…**

;)

* * *

Grey giants of steel and concrete reflected off the tinted windows of a sleek Mercedes cruising down Manhattan. The two passengers in the backseat were of two different minds. Leaning against the window and hunched over moodily, Georgiana Darcy was shut up in her own little world. Huge purple Beats by Dre headphones covered a blonde mop of hair and a freckled face with delicate features. The preteen was listening to the opening notes of Stravinsky's _Rite of Spring_, a fitting riotous number to match her chaotic thoughts that mostly centered on how unfair her brother was being lately.

Will Darcy turned his face upwards, staring out at the buildings that were raised by the hands of his forefathers. Darcy wondered if maintaining his family's legacy was worth losing his sister's confidence in him. He had just returned from a month-long trip in which his company made huge commissions and satisfied its many shareholders. Business was good this past year. Personal life was dwindling.

Darcy sighed softly and looked over to his much younger sister who, admittedly, had not had a very good year either. Their distant and intimidating father died suddenly, leaving behind memories of unattended family dinners and piano recitals. But the fairly healthy 64-year-old real estate tycoon golfed and played racquetball at his club regularly. No one foresaw the heart troubles that took George Darcy's life and left a power vacuum in the family business empire.

On top of losing her father, Georgiana was caught in the middle of a custody battle between her inexperienced, yet caring older brother and her unemployed, socialite mother for the better part of a year. Eventually, the judge in family court found the evidence to be in Darcy's favor after determining that granting custody to Catherine de Bourgh, George Darcy's 33-year-old ex-wife who had no source of income and several charges of cocaine possession, was a generally bad idea.

So while little Georgie should have been settling back into a normal life with a stable authority figure, Darcy was flying all around the world. Darcy knew his life needed stability. He knew he needed to set a less demanding schedule, spend less time in the office micromanaging every little detail, and stop pushing himself so hard. He knew that his sister needed a good female figure in her life – her neglectful mother notwithstanding. At 36, he knew he needed to settle down, get married, and maybe have two or three kids. He recently found himself genuinely interested in his coworkers' tales of their children's objections to bedtime or that funny thing they said to the gardener. Lydia, as always by his side, ignored such stories and continued working on her iPad.

"Hey Georgie," Darcy looked over to his sister, breaking the silence in the car.

He was awarded with more silence for his first efforts at ice-breaking.

"Georgie," he said a little louder.

Nothing.

He lifted one headphone from her right ear. "Georgiana. Anne. Darcy."

"What?"

"Excuse me?"

"_Sorry_. Yes, Will?"

"I just wanted to thank you for helping out at the community garden lately."

Georgiana didn't want to admit it, but she actually did have a good time volunteering for the past few weeks. It got her out of waking up early to attend SAT prep classes every Saturday morning, and she found that she actually enjoyed gardening with other kids her age.

"It's okay," she shrugged.

"Yes, well…I know you think I'm being too hard on you, but I just want you to learn some discipline ever since –"

"I said I was sorry!"

"Don't interrupt please. I think you've been trying really hard to make up for it and Dr. Kruger said that you're making excellent progress during your sessions."

Dr. Johanna Kruger was Georgiana's music therapist. They played random instruments and listened to music to work out her feelings of loss after her father's death.

Georgiana also didn't want to admit that her appointments with Dr. Kruger were more fun than her real music lessons with Dr. Moscowitz (piano) and Dr. Jensen (cello). They were certainly more fun than her math tutoring sessions with Dr. Addams or ballet lessons with Madame Obolensky or conversational Italian lessons with Dr. Aldofini. She had too many lessons outside of school and no time for fun. According to the twelve year old, her life sucked.

The young girl was forbidden from attending sleepovers because it was too high of a security risk to sleep outside of her secured fortress of a home. She was shepherded from one place to another in a bullet-proof, military issued car for fear of being kidnapped. She couldn't even buy nail polish on her own, having to write down a shopping list for their housekeeper Mrs. Reynolds to purchase because God forbid she run down to the local drugstore like a normal person. Being born into a family of gajillionaires was no fun.

"I want you to know that I'm really proud of you. So to say thanks and encourage you to keep up the good work, I just want to give you this…" Darcy pulled out a stuffed envelope from his jacket inside pocket and tossed it onto the empty middle seat between them.

Curious, Georgiana reached over and pulled out the package's contents. Her eyes nearly detached from their sockets as a high-pitched squeal pierced the interior of the car. Emmanuel, their driver, almost swerved into the next lane while Jackson, their head of security sitting in the front passenger seat, immediately turned around to investigate, his right hand already on his concealed firearm.

"Front row seats to Justin Bieber at Madison Square Garden!"

Darcy grinned. Even his Vivaldi loving little sister wasn't immune to the charms of the droopy pants teenaged crooner.

"Can I bring Madison and Mallory?"

"Of course. There are three tickets; you can invite whoever you want." _As long as they clear a criminal record check and Jackson and Frankie go with you._ He was paranoid like that.

"THEY ARE GOING TO FREAK OUT! _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHH!_"

Emmanuel winced. Jackson betrayed no emotion behind his aviators. But his thoughts were of an entirely different nature. _Now I have to babysit at some Jessica Bebson concert. Navy Seals training was easier than this._

"Miss Darcy, can you please keep it down?" Emmanuel asked. "People on the street are going to think that something is very wrong."

Darcy chuckled. "Yeah, Georgie, cool it, will you? And you haven't even checked out the rest."

His sister couldn't believe that there was more. She wildly tore apart the poor envelope and found three all-access backstage passes that included a meet-and-greet session with the teen pop sensation.

The shrill scream that emitted from Georgiana's healthy twelve-year-old lungs quite possibly ruptured the eardrums of the Mercedes' occupants and startled several people on the sidewalk.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyou!" Georgiana launched herself across the backseat into her brother's arms.

Darcy laughed and hugged her back.

Meanwhile, Jackson had to quickly text the security detail in the all-terrain Escalade SUV that followed discreetly behind them that Georgiana was not, in fact, suffering from a seizure.

Emmanuel just shook his head and smiled. He just hoped that they wouldn't get pulled over for violating city codes for public noise disturbances.

* * *

Lizzie knew that if you were a young and leggy brunette in a delicate, sheer, and white patterned Valentino dress from the Spring 2011 collection trying to wave down a yellow cab, then one will magically appear within seconds at the curb. Luckily, the driver was an elderly man with a kind face who wore an old-fashioned workingman's newsboy cap. Lizzie launched herself, quite unladylike, into the taxi and gave him directions to the restaurant in the Upper East Side.

"Whew," he whistled. "Nice place. Who's the lucky guy?"

"Girl, actually," Lizzie chuckled.

"_Oh._"

"No, it's not like _that_. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm meeting my best friend's new boyfriend tonight. It appears that she really wants to make a good impression."

"Ah. So she needs approval from her best friend. I get it."

"Yeah, and she's had _so many_ boyfriends who have screwed her over in the past. She's too trusting, you know? I trust her judgment in the end, but who knows? He might turn out to be a total doucheturd – excuse my language."

"Ah, you're cynical."

Lizzie bristled at the comment, not because the driver had overstepped any boundaries. It was merely that his words echoed her recurring fears about ending up alone in an apartment full of cats.

"_No_, I'm just cautious."

He chuckled. "Tell me, sweetheart, do you have a boyfriend?"

"Why? Are you interested?" Lizzie cracked a smile, hoping to change the topic.

"Been happily married to my Denise for thirty-two years this December!" The cabbie raised his left hand to show off the glittering band of gold.

"Aw, that's really sweet. Congratulations!"

"Thanks, darling. But you didn't answer my question, which makes me think that you're _not _seeing any one, am I right?"

Lizzie sighed and looked out the window into the darkened streets.

"No, not right now. I'm too busy to date."

"You might think you're too busy. But you can't control it, you know."

"Control what?"

"When you fall in love."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you can wake up one morning thinking that nothing out of the ordinary will happen that day. And then a beautiful girl jumps into your taxi with three of her friends asking you to take them to Clark and Monroe. But you only have eyes for her, and four months later, you marry her."

Lizzie grins at the cabbie's sweet story.

"Aaaawww. This is too much. You're going to give me a toothache."

He chuckles hoarsely as he pulls up by the sidewalk in front of her destination.

"Your carriage has arrived, my princess. Now go find the handsomest prince at the ball."

"Thank you, my fairy godfather."

Lizzie caught the driver's kind eyes in the rearview mirror as they crinkled with humor. She paid him (leaving a hefty tip) and stepped into the fresh summer's night air. Maybe it was the interaction she just shared with the cabbie, but she could feel a faint stirring in the wind, like something – something she couldn't name – was going to happen soon.

Taking one last look at the yellow cab as it drove away, Lizzie tucked a stray strand of hair that escaped from her casual up-do behind her ear, let out a breath, and gave the attendant a diminutive smile as she walked into the restaurant.

* * *

A lone figure stood at the bar. Low hanging lamps emitted a warm orange glow that kept a profile in darkness, all pointed angles and lines. Left hand tucked into pants pocket – a Piaget Polo watch peeking from underneath the cuffs – and right elbow resting lazily on the black marble countertop holding up a glass tumbler of a dark amber liquid, William Darcy looked every bit the dark and arrogant billionaire bachelor, an image of which the New York tabloids painted liberally.

Darcy's outer appearance manifested graceful confidence in a slim, tailored black Tom Ford suit. But his inner thoughts were much more disorganized, revolving around the day's quarterly report on green architecture and design initiatives. For the past decade, Darcy Group International had engaged with governments in South America, Africa, and India to provide healthy, sustainable living solutions to overpopulation and urbanization in developing countries. The research that his environmental consulting company presented described a marked decrease in access to electricity and running water in the informal residences, i.e. slums, of large cities. That was not good news.

Darcy looked down at his BlackBerry for the forty-sixth time since he arrived at Daniel, preferring to be early to dinner engagements with people he didn't know. It was a safety precaution, knowing that he could just make a quick, unnoticed exit through the backdoor if the strangers he was meeting seemed like less than savory characters upon first impression. This tactic was employed more than once when he was dating Caroline, as she liked to introduce him to her many "darling friends."

Head down, he read over an email that Lydia sent informing him that she was unable to confirm a meeting with Darcy Group's director of environmental architecture until the day after. He furrowed his brow and took another sip of the biting liquor. The latest numbers needed to be addressed and fixed _quickly_. He should be in the office, not having a casual dinner. But he had already cancelled on Charles four times and didn't want to seem like a jackass by backing out a fifth time.

He smelled her perfume before he heard her voice.

"A Blackheart Stout please."

Lemons, vetiver, and tobacco. This new presence before him smelled like a girl who had just run through a dense forest and spent too much time in the sun. He was intrigued by the willowy figure, leaning against the bar in front of him. She dressed and looked like a doll, but spoke like a woman.

"Sorry, miss, but we do not carry that brew."

"Hmm, how about a Blackhaven?"

"Sorry, no."

"Dragonhead?"

"No."

"Ok. What about Newcastle?"

"Apologies, miss, we do not have many beers on tap."

"_Guinness_?"

"She'll have a Pimm's Royale," Darcy told the bartender. If the girl fancied some British beers tonight, then she should at least have a British cocktail. She gave him a quick glance in response, too quick for him to determine whether she was annoyed or flattered.

"Certainly. May I see your ID, miss?" the bartender politely asked.

The girl easily took out her wallet, as if she anticipated this question everywhere she went. _Well, she _does_ look a bit young_, Darcy thought. _And familiar._

After checking her license, the bartender returned with a chilled glass of bubbly liquid. The tall and lithe brunette – she must only be half a foot shorter than his 6'4" frame, a perfect height difference that Darcy couldn't stop himself from noticing – took a sip before reaching for her credit card.

"Don't even think about it, Alfred," Darcy gave the bartender a meaningful look. Efficient and quick to read people's moods, an important skill for one in his profession, Alfred only nodded and discreetly rejected the woman's card before going to the other side of the bar to serve new customers.

"Thank you," she said, fully turning to face him for the first time.

_Where have I seen her before?_ Darcy wondered.

"You seem to like British imports, so I thought you'd like Pimm's."

"It's very refreshing. Never had a cucumber in a cocktail before."

"There's a first time for everything," Darcy smirked.

"Cheers to that," she raised her glass in a toast and Darcy met her halfway.

"What are we toasting to?" he paused before they were able to clink their glasses.

"To trying new things, even if it involves cucumbers."

"But cucumbers are healthy for you," Darcy replied.

"Cucumbers have no flavor and taste boring," she extended her arm to make contact with his tumbler, but he pulled away jestingly.

"Sometimes boring things are good for you."

"Even if they don't possess any flavor? I much prefer...mangoes."

"Mangoes are a seasonal fruit and have to be shipped from far away locations. Besides, you can get the same nutritional values of a mango in other, more practical fruits. Cucumbers, on the other hand, can be grown in almost any condition; it's simply a matter of practicality."

"But just because cucumbers are more practical, that quality doesn't make them taste any sweeter. Shouldn't something difficult to acquire and admittedly _impractical_ be worth it if it makes you happy?"

He had a feeling that they weren't talking about produce anymore.

"Well, you can't sustain yourself with mangoes all your life. All the saturated sweetness would end up being too overwhelming."

"That may be true. But if you ate cucumbers forever, you would be denying yourself from experiencing new and exciting flavors."

There was a beat between them, a silence filled with a prolonged stare. Their arms were getting sore from being suspended for too long, waiting to finally touch glasses.

She broke the spell first by chuckling nervously and taking another sip of her drink. They never got to toast.

"I'm Elizabeth Bennett, by the way. Thanks for the drink."

Darcy almost dropped his glass. So _that's _why she looked so familiar._  
_

* * *

Elizabeth and Darcy finally meet again! NOW KISS.

Oh, we'll get there in time, you guys.


	4. Chapter Four

**AN: **I know! I know! I'm _horrible _at updates. The story is moving forward and the next chapter is halfway done and will be up by this weekend! It's a doozy! But enjoy this one! Thanks for sticking with flighty Lizzie and OCDarcy._  
_

* * *

_New York City, New York_

_So I didn't have anything on my face, _Lizzie thought. _It was actually just my face_.

Dinner, to put it mildly, was tense.

Lizzie was simmering, for obvious reasons.

Jane was concerned about Charles who was furious at Darcy who was afraid of Lizzie.

* * *

_New York City, New York_

_Two hours earlier_

"I'm Elizabeth Bennett, by the way. Thanks for the drink."

_Oh fuck me._ _She's_ that _Elizabeth Bennett, the girl whose face I yelled into last month? And she just _has _to be gorgeous the second time we meet. But she doesn't recognize me._ Shit._ What happens when she does?_

Luckily, Darcy was saved – for the time being – from such a fate by a faint ringing from inside his jacket pocket.

"Hello?...Yes…Yes…Thank you for coming to meet me…Yes…Thank you…See you there."

Darcy mumbled something unintelligible in Lizzie's general direction and fled the scene, leaving her alone and bewildered.

"Well that was weird," she said under her breath. She nonetheless checked her reflection in the mirrored mantelpiece at the bar, just in case she had something in her teeth.

_Nope. So that hot older guy was just acting strange? It's always the hot ones with the issues..._

Feeling a soft vibration on the countertop, Lizzie opened her clutch and pulled out her phone.

**Here! Where are you?**

_At the bar. Coming!_

With an extra spring in her step, Lizzie practically skipped towards the front of the restaurant, a grin already on her face. There Jane stood in a smart asymmetrical grey dress and lavender-colored accessories, an outfit that she transitioned from office to evening wear – a consummate multitasking professional, Jane was.

"Benny!"

"CasaJa – _ahemumph_ – Janey!"

They hugged as if they had been separated for years and clasped hands as they twirled around in a circle, jumping and giggling.

"Is that a Valentino?!"

"Eh, it's one of the more wearable things my publicist threw at me. But you cut your hair!"

"You grew yours out!"

"Yeah, too busy to get it cut. But look at you and your fancy handbag, being all promoted and stuff!"

"I'm not promoted _yet_ Lizzie..."

"Shut up, you know you're going to get it. Nice bracelet, signing bonus gift?"

"Charles gave it to me for our one month anniversary, actually," Jane blushed.

"Holy crap, that is some serious ice!"

Lizzie abruptly stopped her jumping when she suddenly remembered that she was meeting her best friend's serious manfriend tonight.

Not realizing that they had performed quite a spectacle at one of the most upper-crust and respectable fine dining establishments in town – and that the only reason why they were not asked to leave by the maître d' was because a certain billionaire tycoon was listed among their party – Lizzie and Jane descended from their exuberant reunion to the real world.

Facing a tall, blond bearded man who seemed to be in his late twenties, Lizzie flashed him her most brilliant smile and held out her hand.

"You must be Charles, nice to meet you."

"And you're the beautiful Hollywood star Jane's always talking about," Charles grinned, shaking her hand. "Nice to meet you too, finally."

"I prefer 'supremely talented and indispensible,' but beautiful will also do," Lizzie replied.

"Don't let her sass you, Charles," Jane rolled her eyes as she placed her hand on his arm. "Just give it right back. You should know that she's scared to death of horses and will cross the street if she sees one of those touristy horse drawn carriages. That should give you enough ammunition."

"Jane, you _know_ those horses have _no business _being that tall!"

"Just preparing Charles for your particular brand of friendship."

"By telling him all my secrets upfront?"

Charles laughed. "Lizzie, I have a feeling that you can handle yourself."

"You're right, I can," she shot him her most hazardous look, but then dissolved into a smirk.

"_Ahem_."

The three young people contained themselves enough to pay attention to the proper French man dressed in a tuxedo.

"Mademoiselles and monsieur, if you would please follow me to your table."

"Certainly," Charles said and held out both of his arms for the ladies to take, escorting them as if they were in Victorian England.

Once they were seated and handed their menus, Lizzie looked curiously to the empty spot next to her.

"Jane, didn't you say that Charles' friend was coming?"

Although she had initially balked at the idea of being set up, Lizzie changed her mind after meeting Charles. If Charles was such a likeable guy, then his friend couldn't be too bad.

"Yes, my best friend Will Darcy is a workaholic who puts Jane and myself to shame when it comes to the hours he puts in," Charles chuckled. "So I was finally able to get him to go out for the first time in ages. He should be here any minute."

Lizzie shrugged it off and they moved on to the typical "getting to know you" topics.

Charles' job? Venture capitalist. Alma mater? Harvard and Harvard Business. Hometown? Greenwich, Connecticut. Hobbies? Sailing. Sports? Lacrosse, ice hockey, and skiing. Favorite music? Dispatch. Favorite movie? Caddyshack. Favorite food? A sushi bar in Tokyo he once stumbled upon while on a shopping vacation with his sisters.

Charles Bingley was, in a word, to the manor born.

Lizzie shook her head in amusement as he was telling them about the one time he went cliff diving in Hawaii and almost lost the keys to his family's yacht at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. How the prudent, thrifty, grew-up-on-a-ranch-in-small-town-Texas Jane Martinez ended up with such a New England dudebro, Lizzie had no idea. But after seeing the glow that Jane carried around Charles, Lizzie knew that he could be good for her. He was like the peanut butter to Jane's jelly, the butter to her corn, the Nutella to her toast.

Charles pulled out Jane's chair for her, poured her water, asked if she was cold and needed the shawl that she left in his car, listened attentively as she told them about her day, was genuinely engaged when she elaborated on the finer points of her current project at work and complained about some of her needy clients, and was overall an impeccable specimen of a polite, mature, and well-to-do adult male – despite his penchant for unconsciously saying dudebro things. Things such as,

"Jane is such a sweetheart. She put up with me for hours in Brooks Brothers the other day."

And, "That's the last time I forget to pack my lucky golfing gloves for Augusta. I never would have made it past the seventh hole if Darcy hadn't intervened via helicopter."

And, "So after hours dragging Darcy through the dealership, he just said 'Screw it, _I'll _buy you the damn Maserati if it will just get me out of here!' So that's the story of how I got a free Maserati."

And, "It's a real blessing that Jane enjoys a good Philly cheese steak as much as I do. God knows my sister's Russian supermodel friends don't."

And, "I should have known better than torace laps in the pool with Darcy; that freak of nature will _dominate _you in the water."

And, "I wish that I had my own, but my father says it's an imprudent investment. So for the time being, I have to keep borrowing Darcy's Gulfstream to fly into St. Tropez. Jane and I are going for Christmas!"

This illusive Darcy, who dropped 200k on a luxury sports car on a whim and was apparently the Michael Phelps of eccentric billionaires, piqued Lizzie's interest more and more. If only the mysterious man would show up; he was more than forty minutes late and the party had already placed their orders without him.

Charles by now had concerned frown lines etched on his face. He kept checking his phone and craning his neck to glance at the front door. When their first courses arrived, Charles apologized for his friend's unusual tardiness.

"He probably got caught with work again. Although it's uncommon of him to not text or call."

A few minutes after tucking into their meal with epicurean delight, uproarious and deep laughter resounded from a table that was sequestered into a secluded corner. Everyone's attention was drawn to a pair of men who shook hands as they stood up and buttoned their blazers. The younger one had a tall, noble bearing whereas the older man's handsome face was marred by an all-too-obvious spray tan. The two men were about to pass their table when Charles called out his missing friend's name.

"Darcy?" Charles cried, confused.

At the sound of Charles' voice, the younger of the duo stopped dead in front of their table and steered his eyes onto the group of friends sitting with their half-eaten plates of food and open bottle of wine. Recognition instantly flooded into Darcy's eyes as the polished and usually in control billionaire realized his mistake.

"Charles! What are you doing here?" Darcy asked in a voice that carried notes of frantic fumbling.

"Having dinner; you _remember_, the one that was scheduled to begin an hour ago?" Charles said pointedly through gritted teeth.

"But I had you in my planner at nine."

"Nope. Eight. There was a reschedule."

"Did you call my assistant?"

"I _texted _you earlier _today_."

"On which phone?"

"The one that you don't check, apparently."

"Yeah," Darcy laughed nervously and rubbed the back of his neck. "Lydia is the one who updates my schedule. I don't do anything unless it's in my planner; I'm sort of a machine about it, actually…"

"You're many things, Darce…" Charles mumbled angrily.

"Charles. Ladies. My deepest apologies for keeping Mr. Darcy from you!" the older gentleman, attempting to alleviate the tension, addressed to the group. "If I had _any_ inkling that he was late to a prior engagement, especially with such beautiful young women," he leered unsubtly down Jane's modest cleavage, "then I would have _never _agreed to our meeting!"

Charles put a protective arm over Jane's shoulders and glared.

"Thank you, _Senator_," Charles replied. "How are your wife and children? Did they come into the city with you?"

"Ah, _agmph_, no…They are staying with my wife's mother's for the time being…_ahem_…Well, if you excuse me…Lovely to see you again, Charles. Tell your parents I send them my regards. Darcy, we'll talk soon about the zoning policies. Ladies, it was a pleasure…Uh, well. I have to go…" Senator X coughed and mumbled something about tending to his constituency.

As he retreated, Lizzie stared at his backside, noticing something familiar about…

"_Holy_...was that the New York Senator who –"

"Yep," Charles nodded.

"Posted on Twitter – ?"

"The same exact one."

" – a video of him dancing naked to Baby Got Back?"

"Oh really? That doesn't sound _that _bad," Jane laughed. "Considering all the things it could have been –"

"Like dancing with five male strippers? Yeah, it was _that_." Charles supplied.

"Oh."

"Still a Senator, surprisingly. And long-time squash buddies with my dad."

"Huh," Jane frowned.

"Don't worry, my parents will be _nothing _like that when you meet them. They already love you as much as I do," Charles flashed his girlfriend his most charming smile and kissed her on the cheek.

Jane flushed prettily and smiled beatifically. Lizzie, pleasantly surprised that her friend had already made it to the "L word" phase but also eager relinquish the role of the third-wheel, turned her attention to Darcy who was still standing awkwardly.

"Hi. Um, we've met before. You know, you can sit down if you want. I don't bite."

Darcy, who looked like a convicted man walking to the gallows, sat down heavily and cleared his throat.

"Charles, I apologize, I didn't mean to be so late. I will try to be more diligent about checking my social phone."

Charles rolled his eyes; his easy nature made it no hardship to have already forgiven his best friend. "I'll just call your business line or Lydia next time. You clearly never use your social phone."

_The last time I used my designated "social" phone was_ _to..._Darcy tried to remember_...look up Elizabeth Bennett. Oh God._

"Darcy, I'd like you to meet my girlfriend Jane – " Darcy and Jane politely greeted each other and shook hands across the table. "Jane, this is my best friend, Darcy. Don't worry, when he remembers to show up to places, he's actually quite lovable, aren't you, Darce? And this is Jane's best friend from college, Lizzie."

"Hi," Lizzie smiled. "You look really familiar. Have we met before? I mean, before tonight?"

"Um…" Darcy said quietly, taking a sip of his water.

_Disguise of any sort is an abhorrence_. Darcy couldn't help recalling a certain expression that his father used to say. Darcy chose to ignore it. He didn't have the best relationship with George Darcy anyway.

"Hmm, probably one of those faces I suppose," Lizzie shrugged, but the nagging sensation remained in the back of her mind.

After Darcy ordered a simple salad and the initial awkward small talk was out of the way, the foursome enjoyed a pleasant dinner and finished a vintage Romanee-Conti. Conversation ranged from undergraduate misadventures to the jazz clubs Jane and Charles recommended to favorite movies they had seen recently.

"Lizzie is a famous screenwriter, Darcy! Have you seen _Midnight Graffiti _or _Bent Tulips_? She wrote them!" Charles asked.

"Um, no. I don't get out much to see new films," Darcy replied, looking very intently at his heap of kale.

"Well, they're both _great_ and she's _very_ successful and sought after –" Lizzie rolled her eyes, but stayed modestly silent – "Lizzie, Jane tells me you just finished a press tour, right? Where were all the places…?"

"Oh! Well, we didn't expect _Bent Tulips_to get any international attention or do as well as it did. But with all the hype after it was released in the states, we moved up the premieres in London, Berlin, Rome, and Paris. Actually, Jane, I never told you this, but the craziest thing happened while I was in Paris."

"You finally went on a date with that French actor who's clearly in love with you?" Jane drolly asked.

Lizzie rolled her eyes. "Ugh, no. His face is just so...Anyway. So I bumped into this guy at my hotel and spilled coffee all over his stupid, precious briefcase, _completely on accident_."

Lizzie, the former English major who transformed her way with words into a full-fledged career, got into the full spirit of recounting her traumatic experience.

"And then before I could even apologize, he went into a trance of uncontrollable fury and proceeded to spit vitriolic hatred all over my face, calling me a trampy nobody who needed to find work as a chimneysweep in order to pay him for a new briefcase. I swear his eyes rolled back into his head and there might have been foam lathering his mouth and I think I saw his dad, Satan, appear on _both_ his shoulders at one point –" the entire table, save for one, was in stitches at Lizzie's description.

"Well anyway, this total temper tantrum throwing man-child with monumental rage issues was a real life Christian Bale in _American Psycho_; he was _literally_ seconds away from grabbing his favorite chainsaw. _Seriously_. It's such a shame too, because he was really hot. Like, incredibly and unfairly hot. Jane, you would have agreed that he was _definitely_ up my alley. Tall, muscled, dark hair, blue deeply crazed eyes, and he was just totally…" Lizzie suddenly paused in the middle of her manic-paced description and sharply turned her gaze to her dining partner who had been conspicuously silent. Hotly embarrassed by the things she just said, Lizzie finally recognized that irksome feeling that she carried all night. Glaring at Darcy straight in the eyes, she bit out through clenched teeth, "_YOU_."

* * *

Ooooooh snap!


	5. Chapter Five

**AN: **Um, _psych_, when I said I would post soon, I meant, er, whenever I found the time to finish this chapter. Apologies to everyone for raising your hopes up, and I thank you again and again for sticking with the story despite my flightiness and unreliable posting schedule. One day, life will be less hectic and I will be able to adhere to some semblance of a schedule. In the meantime, here is a meatier chapter than usual. Enjoy!_  
_

P.S. There is a slight, _slight_ possibility that this story will go from a T to M rating (you might find it evident by the end of this chapter. Yeah, get excited. Or actually, just read it and then come back to the author's note...alright, are you back now? Brilliant!). How do people feel about this? To be honest, I've never written anything remotely close to erotica, but let's be real, I'm a modern lady in the 21st century so I am somewhat familiar with the genre. I will heed the words of Isabel Allende when she said "Erotica is using a feather, pornography is using the whole chicken." So while I am very green, I will still try to keep it tasteful. BUT if much of your feedback is in the negative or wary category (which is completely understandable, as I've admitted to being a total novice), then I will definitely take it from there.

Again, thank you for reading!

* * *

_New York City, New York_

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Charles hissed from across the table.

Slumped very inelegantly – for a Darcy anyway – over his chair, Darcy groaned while shielding his face in his hands.

"This is not good," Darcy sighed.

"Darcy, my girlfriend's best friend – whose approval I've been trying to win all night –just stormed out after discovering that _my _ best friend once publicly humiliated her! So yeah, I'd say that it's the _opposite_ of good."

"God, I really have the worst luck."

"Did you really say all those things about her? _To her face_?"

"In my defense, I was having a really bad morning."

"What, did someone de-alphabetize your iTunes again?" Charles scoffed, knowing full well that _he_ was the usual suspect who pulled small pranks to drive his control freak of a friend crazy.

"_No_. And it wasn't just any 'stupid' briefcase, it once belonged to my father. One of the very few personal affects he left behind for me in his will. Mom gave it to him early in their marriage when, you know. Before…" Darcy's voice drifted off while his mind floated into a personal place that held memories of a briefly happy childhood.

"Oh," Charles sobered, years of friendship making him used to Darcy's sudden spells of introversion. "Sorry, man."

"It's alright. Elizabeth couldn't have known. And she's right, it was just an accident. I lost my temper and I shouldn't have."

"You still need to apologize."

"How can I? She hates me!"

"Yeah, that's visibly evident," Charles laughed.

Charles was referring to the dried red stains on his regal friend's starched once-pristine-ivory-white shirt – remnants of the glass of wine that Lizzie threw in his face before racing out of the restaurant with Jane hot on her heels.

The two women, meanwhile, were outside on the sidewalk. The tall brunette was pacing and gesticulating wildly; the slim blonde was leaning against a parking meter while demonstrating a mastered Grace Kelly coolness.

"…certifiably insane lunatic delighting over the pain of others…"

Jane checked her watch.

"…stupid, pretentious suit and his stupid, pretentious kale…_Oh look at me in my exquisitely tailored Armani and my healthy super foods_…acting like he's so much better than everyone else… "

Jane picked at her nails.

"…_of course _he'd be caught hobnobbing with a disgraced Senator to further his company profit margins…just like those soulless One Percent…"

Jane was texting Charles.

"…even having the _nerve_ to buy me a drink without asking! Like he's some cavalier, arrogant knight in shining armor…"

"Wait, what did you say?"

"…I'm _never _having a Pimm's again. I don't care if it's actually really delicious. It'll just taste like _condescension_…"

"Lizzie! Back up. You said he bought you a drink? When was this?"

Lizzie stopped in the middle of her rampage and faced Jane.

"It was just right before you arrived at the restaurant with Charles. We were both at the bar and I wanted a stout, but they didn't have any and out of nowhere, _he_ strolled up all sleuth-like and mysterious and helpfully ordered me a drink…I mean…it _wasn't _helpful at all…_total prick_..."

She immediately went back to marching up and down the small stretch of sidewalk and cursing the day William Darcy decided to have a breakfast meeting at the Ritz. Jane sighed.

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," Jane said none-too-slyly.

"Jane! What are you insinua – that is _so _not what is happening here. I am _not_…That is _ridic – _How could you even…You…You…You _Gertrude_…_Betrayal, thy name is woman_!"

Jane giggled at Lizzie's sudden inarticulateness. This only happened when Lizzie was _really _nervous and unsure about something. Or someone.

"Oh my God, _you like him_! It's all over your face! By the way, it was _frailty_, not betrayal. I think? Charles and I went to see _Hamlet _off-Broadway last weekend."

The book nerd in Lizzie was ashamed. "Whatever, Jane, I hate it when you're right."

"Hell yes, I'm right! So you _do _like him! You practically admitted it at dinner! What was he again? 'Insanely, unfairly hot,' was it? You weren't lying. He _is_ kind of a babe."

"_Jaaane_! I was talking about the Hamlet quote, you conniving…_conniver_. You totally twisted my words. You're like…worse than Evil Gay Footmen and Evil Lady's Maid from the early twentieth century –"

"Whoa, leave the beloved and Emmy winning _Downton Abbey _out of this. Besides, Thomas totally redeems himself when he gets all tragic. Hello, season two? And anyway, O'Brien is just misunderstood – _Oh my God Lizzie, you _did not _just try to distract me with English period dramas_!"

Lizzie shrugged. She knew her friend's weaknesses very well. Jane never could say no to British accents and bonnets. "It almost worked, didn't it?"

"And you were calling _me _the manipulator? I'm onto your tricks now. Fess up, you definitely have the hots for Forbes' Richest American Bachelor."

"That was before I found out that he was Patrick Bateman, okay? Hello, did you suddenly forget about how he almost had me burnt at the stake for ruining his stupid designer handbag?"

"Exaggerating, much?"

"Jane, it was the most mortifying moment of my entire life!"

"I thought finding condoms in your parents' suitcases after they got back from their couples' retreat was the most awkward –"

"Lalalalalalala! NOT. HELPING."

"Okay, okay, sorry I brought it up! But while you were working everything out of your system between Park and Madison, Charles texted and told me that Darcy's briefcase actually holds a lot of meaning for him. Apparently, it's a significant one-of-a-kind family heirloom that he's really attached to, so maybe his reaction wasn't too extreme in that context."

"Jane, are you seriously taking his side?"

"No, Lizzie," Jane said wearily. "What he said to you was atrocious, but I can also understand where he's coming from. And don't you think you're overreacting a little bit?"

"Gertrude! Traitorous Gertrude!"

"You _did _throw a drink in his face. I mean, I know you work in Hollywood now, but I never thought that you would pull a Naomi Campbell."

"Yeah…that was pretty out of line…" Lizzie said through the side of her mouth, humbly chastised.

"So are you going to go back in there and apologize or what?"

"_Me_? _Apologize_? To _him?_"

"Uh, you're lucky they didn't kick you out of the place! It's only because Darcy is, well, _William Darcy _that we're not all banned for life!"

"Yes, _Mother_…I will go and make nice with Darcy. And tell Charles not to worry, his choice of friends have not affected my good opinion of him."

Jane smiled and put her arm over Lizzie's shoulders, leading them back into the restaurant.

Once at the table, Lizzie sent Charles a small smile before seating herself primly next to an abashed Darcy. Both affronted parties mumbled apologies while managing to avoid looking at the other in the eyes. Dessert was declined (much to their beleaguered waiter's gratitude). Charles and Darcy fought over the check. Bills were signed. And soon enough, Lizzie and Jane were hugging each other good-bye while waiting for Charles' car to pull up at the valet station.

"Are you sure you don't want a ride? It's really no trouble," Jane again insisted on seeing her friend home.

"Jane, I'll be fine. And I live on the complete opposite side of town anyway," Lizzie assured.

"Alright, but call me when you get there! And have a safe trip."

"I'm so happy that we could get together tonight. I'll miss you!"

The two best friends hugged again, making promises to call and Skype each other.

"Lizzie, it was great to finally meet you," Charles went in for a hug as well.

"Keep my girl out of trouble, Chuck," Lizzie winked at him.

An attendant had already called the attention of a yellow cab for her. Just before getting in, Lizzie remembered her manners and looked back at the looming, silent presence on the busy New York sidewalk.

"Um, good night then," the young brunette nodded at Darcy. She got in the taxi and rode off before Darcy could fully register what had happened.

Charles' Prius appeared at the curb shortly after. Jane and Darcy said polite, reserved goodbyes before she situated herself in the passenger seat.

After getting the keys from the valet and tipping him, Charles clapped his friend on the back. Still lost in thought over Lizzie's unanticipated attention towards him, Darcy was brought out of his muddled musings by the sudden impact.

"So!" Charles smirked. "Good work tonight, Darce."

Darcy scoffed indignantly.

"I got wine thrown at me – not the first to be targeted at me in a matter of weeks and _from the same woman_. Just how was tonight in any way a job well done?"

"Honestly, Darcy, don't you listen at all?"

After Darcy sent his friend a look that demonstrated his total confusion, Charles rolled his eyes and decided to clue in his totally inept friend. _Dear God, how did he and Caroline ever date?_ Charles wondered. And shuddered.

"Darcy, she thinks you're hot, bro."

With a nod of his head, Charles left Darcy standing alone and flabbergasted and…curious.

* * *

_S__ã__o Paulo, Brazil_

Standing atop of Pico do Jaraguá, Lizzie could hear the electric humming from the multitude of radio towers and satellites of media broadcasting companies. A little out of breath and sweaty from having spent the early morning hiking the highest mountain in São Paulo, Lizzie took a minute to absorb the scenery. The city of São Paolo stretched out below her, its chaotic grid of old and new neighborhoods clashing against one another, the metropolitan skyline covered by faint clouds. Lizzie dug out her Nikon Digital SLR camera from her backpack and began taking aerial views of the city where her current movie script was set.

This "fact finding mission" was considered completely unnecessary by Lizzie's agent, but she was adamant about playing a more significant role in her next film project. Besides, this was to be her downtime between movies and production. The press was completed for _Bent Tulips_, the film festivals had come and gone, and awards season was not for another couple of months.

Breathing in a lungful of the cool, crisp air on top of São Paulo's highest peak, this was Lizzie's idea of a productive vacation.

So far, Lizzie had walked through several of the city's public parks, spent leisurely days reading and writing at cafes in older neighborhoods that housed university students and small families, strolled through flea markets and stopped to listened to street musicians, hung out at art museums and admired the city's clashing neoclassical and Beaux Arts architecture. Lizzie loved to travel alone, free to explore and do whatever she liked.

But there were moments – such as this one as she soaked in small rays of the rising sun that peaked through the clouds – when she found herself looking at a magnificent painting or accidentally walking down a residential alley with lovely window gardens, that she wished she had a friend or even a lover whom she could ask, "Isn't it beautiful?"

Her only companions were the German tourists who were a part of her hiking group. But they were currently snapping pictures of their own and mostly kept to themselves. Besides, Lizzie only knew _danke shoen _and vague lyrics to "99 Red Luft Balloons."

Her peaceful respite was broken by a shrill ringing from the pocket of her fleece jacket. She picked up her cell phone to see the Caller ID identify a "Private Number." Curious, and knowing all too well in her line of business that big-shot producers and directors enjoyed their anonymity, Lizzie answered the call.

"Yes, Elizabeth Bennett speaking," Lizzie said, using her professional voice.

"Hello. Ms. Bennett? This is William Darcy."

_Well…"Have a phone conversation with William Darcy while on top of a mountain" was certainly not on today's schedule._

"How did you get this number?" Lizzie asked abruptly.

"Ah…well…I hope you don't fault your friend for this, but she took pity on me and –"

"_Gertrude_," Lizzie narrowed her eyes and mumbled.

"Um, sorry?"

"Never mind. So Jane gave you my number, I guess? Is there something that I can help you with?" She could not imagine any scenario in which the All Great and Powerful William Darcy needed anything from her.

"I just…um…I just wanted to apologize again for my actions in Paris. I treated you deplorably and acted in a very ungentlemanly manner. And I deeply regret it."

_Acted in a very ungentlemanly…Who talks like that anymore?_

"Thank you…I guess. I'm sorry too. For, um, throwing wine at you. That was…inappropriate."

"It was nothing less than I deserved, Ms. Bennett."

"Uh…I know we're not friends or anything. But you can call me Elizabeth…"

"Thank you."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"Sooo…did Charles ask you to call or…"

"No. Ah…I am making this call out of my own volition. The reason for my calling, Ms. – er, Elizabeth – was to inquire if you would like to have dinner with me sometime later this week; to make a fresh start between the two of us. I figure, if Jane and Charles are going to be seeing a lot of each other, then we should make peace for their sakes."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"Hello?"

Lizzie was currently staring at her phone as if it had grown a unicorn horn and could also dispense rainbow Skittles.

"Elizabeth?" A slightly panicked voice came through the speaker.

"Um. Wow. Well…I have to admit that this was unexpected. Um…thank you for the offer, but I'm not actually in New York right now."

"Oh."

"Sorry…" Lizzie nervously chuckled, not entirely sure what she was apologizing for.

"So I guess…you won't be in New York any time soon?"

"No…I'm actually in São Paulo doing research."

"Oh."

"But, uh, thanks anyways."

"Well…ah…next time you're in New York then."

_Hold your horses, buddy. I haven't exactly said yes._

_But you want to_, a tiny, covert voice surfaced.

_Shut up, meddling know-it-all subconscious!_

Before Lizzie had a complete psychiatric breakdown in front of some stoic, no-nonsense Germans, she gave Darcy a waffling, middle of the road answer – the coward's way out.

"Yeah…Maybe…I'm not sure when I'll be in New York next, to be honest…"

"Oh...Some other time then. Good luck with your research, Elizabeth. I hope you have a good day," Darcy said hurriedly in one breath, as if he was desperate to remove himself from the awkward situation as quickly as possible.

"Okay. Er, thanks again."

"No need to thank me. It was my pleasure. Or, um, would have been my pleasure."

Meanwhile in Manhattan, Darcy was seconds away from stabbing a fountain pen into his eye for mentioning "his pleasure" to a girl who had just turned down a dinner date with him.

"Er, good-bye, Elizabeth."

"Bye."

Click.

_What the hell was that?!_ Lizzie stared at her phone, wondering when the host of the hidden camera show would appear from behind the bushes.

Ten hours, one long car ride into the city, a long nap, and a shower later, Lizzie was sitting on the rooftop deck of her trendy, designer hotel located in the elegant Jardins District of São Paulo. Still bewildered by the strange phone call she received earlier in the day, Lizzie rested her elbow on the back of her chair as she stared off into the sun setting over the city skyline.

She observed the evenly tanned and tall Gisele Bündchen look-alikes in their Brazilian style bikinis "lounging around" in five-inch stilettos by the infinity pool. Men in nice chinos and pastel colored button-ups leisurely carried drinks while talking about the day's stock exchange. No children were in sight at the rooftop bar of decadence. The hotel that Lizzie's "people" booked for her was definitely not a family destination or a representation of everyday Brazilian culture.

"Senhorita," a voice interrupted her thoughts. A waiter appeared at her side with a pink, frou-frou looking drink containing several morsels of fruit on a stick and an umbrella. "Para você. Do cavalheiro," he nodded towards the bar.

Only having a rudimentary understanding of Portuguese, Lizzie's wide eyes and non-response alerted him to try again in English.

"This is for you," he said with an accent. "From the gentleman over there."

"Oh! Obrigado," Lizzie smiled and accepted the drink. She turned and made eye contact with a tall man in a leather jacket and tight, low-slung dark jeans. His trim and toned physique screamed athlete. His playful gaze, crooked nose, scruffy five o' clock shadow, and the gleaming diamond in his ear screamed _bad boy athlete_.

Now normally, Lizzie jumped at opportunities to make merry with persons of interest such as the Brazilian James Dean before her. Francine Bennett raised no snob, but Lizzie also didn't play footloose and _too _fancy free with just anyone. If the lusty spark in Playboy Footballer's eyes was any indication of where and how he expected the evening to proceed, Lizzie simply did not consider a stranger in a foreign country the greatest choice for breaking her streak of celibacy. Yes, it had been an extended period of months, bordering on alarming if she thought about it for too long, since Lizzie engaged in certain bedroom activities with another person.

Lizzie warily raised her new drink in the air and nodded, hoping that he would leave her in peace. But no man buys a woman a drink expecting to be ignored. Sure enough, Bejeweled Bad Boy made his way over to her table.

"Olá beldade," he said over her shoulder.

A whiff of strong, musky cologne invaded her senses and Lizzie internally wondered if she could evade him by playing the clueless American card.

"Um, sorry, I don't speak Portuguese."

A silent moment later, the man grinned, showing a mouthful of straight, unnaturally white teeth.

_Like a shark_, Lizzie thought.

"You are American?"

"Yes."

"I am Breno Silva." He paused and looked at her expectantly.

"Um…nice to meet you, Breno," Lizzie replied, hoping that he wouldn't notice that she withheld her name.

"I play for center for São Paulo FC. Do you follow football?"

"Er, sorry, no."

"Ah. So you have never seen me play on the television?"

Lizzie shrugged awkwardly. As of thirty seconds ago, she hadn't even realized that the city had its own football league.

"I am very good. I have many expert skills, on the field and off the field," he smiled toothily.

"Oh. Cool…"

Lizzie figured that if she made herself seem extremely dull and completely devoid of any personality, then São Paulo's Most Valuable Cologne Over-enthusiast would eventually get bored and leave. Apparently, Breno the Bear – as he was known by the ladies, he told her – was not perturbed by this.

_I knew I shouldn't have worn this dress to dinner_, Lizzie reprimanded herself retroactively.

It was yet another dress that Charlotte picked out and Lizzie packed it at the last minute just in case some situation called for it. When she felt the urge to dress up for dinner after a day of slumming it in the mountains, she should have resisted. Now Lizzie was wearing a deep cherry red, jacquard-woven, and sleeveless a-line dress designed by Victoria Beckham. It had a tasteful boat neck, yet totally indecorous hem length that ended, if Lizzie had to guess, somewhere around her uterus. What made her feel sexy and confident in front of her hotel room mirror earlier in the evening now made her the unwanted object of several lecherous male gazes, one of which was currently sitting too close next to her.

_Only the former Posh Spice would make a dress like this_, Lizzie thought. _What is this guy talking about again? _Lizzie had tuned out minutes ago. _Oh right, tattoos. Of course._

" – my next one is going to be hidden from sight, only a select and lucky few might see it, near my pelv –"

Lizzie mentally cringed, but was saved from discovering Breno's body art aspirations by a sudden and loud whirring noise above her.

Everywhere on the rooftop deck, people's conversations were interrupted as their hair and clothes began to flutter chaotically among the sounds of a helicopter's powerful blades descending on the raised helipad a hundred feet away from them. A city of impressive skyscrapers and even more impressive sights, São Paulo was known for its aerial tours and millionaires who casually travelled via personal helicopters. While it was not an unusual sight for São Paulo natives, it completely captivated Lizzie's attention.

The more she watched the lone pilot land smoothly and expertly, the more anxious she felt – although she could not reasonably say why. As the blades whirled to a stop and the man inside the cockpit spoke into his headset and logged in his landing, Lizzie couldn't help the rapid bouncing of her knee.

_Why am I suddenly so antsy?_

A warm, biting sensation spread and made its course through her entire body. It made her uncomfortably aware of the scratchy lace of her lingerie and eventually settled low in her abdomen. Lizzie's body recognized that it was at once arousal and completely ridiculous. Because there was no way that she could be turned on by a helicopter.

_Admit it to yourself, Lizzie._

_Seriously, it's right in front of you._

"Oh my God," she whispered in the middle of the rooftop's quiet observation of the tall, finely suited man stepping onto the helipad's pavement.

_What is _he_ doing here…?_

_How on earth did he…?_

_Well, he _is _a mega bajillionaire, apparently. If anyone could pull off a Bruce Wayne and travel half the world in less than a day, it would be _William. Fricking. Darcy. _William Darcy. Followed me to Brazil. Holy shit._

He was a dominating vision in a navy blue suit – sans tie and windswept hair making him look like the careless playboy billionaire more than ever – magically unwrinkled after sitting for who knows how long while flying a helicopter.

_On his own. William Darcy can fly helicopters. Jesus, I'm in so much trouble._

Darcy casually adjusted his cuffs as he scanned the deck, his strong jaw line set in determination belying his relaxed stance. Although his aviators – _Not the best time to revisit those fantasies you had in high school of marrying Tom Cruise from Top Gun_ – hid his deep blue eyes with the dark and lush eyelashes – _STAY STRONG, BENNETT _– every hopeful woman on the rooftop knew that he was searching for a particular person.

Deciding it was futile to deny the inevitable, Lizzie gladly left Breno's side and started down the path that led to…whatever this was.

Her temptingly short red dress and rich, voluminous mane of dark auburn hair – let down for the first time since he met her in Paris – attracted the internal magnet that Darcy had already developed for Elizabeth Bennett.

His slowly developing smile turned into a full blown grin, dimples and all, once he stood in front of the beautiful young woman with the inquisitive and sparkling eyes. Lost in simply taking in her every movement, Darcy didn't realized that he took several strides towards her until there was barely a foot of space between them in the middle of the rooftop deck, uncaring that dozens of eyes were upon them.

"Mr. Darcy. Welcome to São Paulo," Lizzie smirked, hands on her hips which only drew his gaze to her slim waist, imagining what it would feel like to cover them with his large hands, enshrouded in enticing red. His eyes wandered lower to her bare legs; they were long and toned and would look perfect wrapped around –

"_Ahem_. Elizabeth, I'm delighted to be here."

He took her hand and bent down to place a chaste kiss on her knuckles. Darcy's sunglasses partially slid down his patrician nose, revealing an intense pair of eyes that peaked up at her. Making eye contact for the first time since, well, their disastrous first meeting, Lizzie could barely contain her breath from catching in a very clichéd damsel-in-distress manner.

"And what, might I ask, brings you here?"

"Dinner," he replied coolly, still holding onto her hand. "Have you eaten, Elizabeth?"

"As a matter of fact, I haven't yet," she smirked again, not knowing how much Darcy wanted to kiss those full pink lips.

"Excellent. Come, I know a place," he said, pulling her towards his helicopter.

Her eyes almost fell out of their sockets.

"We're not going country hopping, are we?"

"Hmmm," was Darcy's non-answer.

All of her practical questions were silenced – where was he taking her? Did she need her passport? How would she get back to her hotel? Did wherever they were headed have a couch or any available flat surface on which they can heavily make out? Helicopters have backseats, right? _DAMN IT, __STAY STRONG BENNETT_ – when Darcy looked over his shoulder at her with a lopsided and boyish grin, evidently excited about where he was taking her.

At the moment, Lizzie decided to simply follow where Darcy led.


End file.
